


On What Wings (Dare He Aspire)

by TheGeekLord



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Dark Fantasy, Graphic Description of Corpses, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Slow Burn, author knows nothing about fishing, they don't meet for a ridiculously long time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:59:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17570423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGeekLord/pseuds/TheGeekLord
Summary: It is at once the most real thing Will has ever seen, and yet something from a dream, a grand house and yet also a ramshackle, broken down ruin. Like a dual layer of film, two visions press one atop the other. In all honesty, Will isn’t sure any more which vision to believe.Will Graham is a lonely fisherman eking out an existence on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere-punishment perhaps for the things he has done. But that all changes when a cry from the woods leads him to the castle in the trees, where a whole new set of rules apply. Surrounded by old friends and new, maybe he'll finally be able to forgive himself after all. But just who is the master of the house, and why can none of them leave?





	1. In The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I know I shouldn't be writing something else when my scheduling is so bad, but this one has been with me for around two years now. I thought it time I dig it out and see if we can't finish it.

The slow march from an ever-changing autumn into the first tentative touches of winter is bitterly cold, more so than usual. Sharp fingers of ice creep steadily over the island, digging in early and burying themselves deep and unshakable. Will has long since grown used to the piercing, frigid winds; a killer to the unprepared, by now they stand as little but a distant irritation. The winter won't be what kills him in the end.

People, however, he could not say the same for. Psychiatrists, reporters, his old boss of a day (if you could call him that- Will hadn't really worked _for_ him, not officially), they would never leave him be. Wherever he turns, there they are with their prying words, unwavering watchfulness, and relentless need to push and push until his finely tuned control was ready to snap.For a man who values solitude above all else, the press of people prying into his life day in, day out is something of a nightmare. Settled as their little town is on a small island in the middle of nowhere, he- or, more accurately, his past- is unarguably the best gossip for miles.

He takes great pains to avoid social interaction in part because of it.

As the fledgling sunlight starts to filter onto the wet pavements of their almost-quaint harbour, Will makes his way swiftly through the streets, stepping carefully to avoid the dark ribbons of ice that coat the silent lanes. Things are always quieter this time of year, more so now that the winter seems to be drawing in early, wrapping their town in a dense sea fog that takes longer and longer to shift the shorter the days become.

His walk is usually a solitary affair, a time oft spent sorting out his own mind, readying himself for the day ahead. Not this morning though; a figure is lurking by the fountain in the square, almost certainly waiting for him.  

Freddie Lounds is easy to spot, even bundled up as she is in a thick, no doubt ludicrously expensive winter coat; scarf matched to compliment. Her copper-bright hair spills down her shoulders in delicate ringlets, bold despite the half-light leeching away much of the colour; a beautiful image for one so cold. She has been waiting for him, that much is obvious; and given the way she perks up at the sound of his approach, she has been for some time. So much for routine keeping him safe.

“What do you want, Ms Lounds?” he grits out as he nears. He tells himself that he swerves away from her in order to miss a spill of ice in his path. He isn’t very convincing.

Freddie remains unperturbed. Smile bright and calculating, she struts closer, heels miraculously finding traction where Will’s heavy boots do not.

“Do you have anything to say about the disappearance of Abigail Hobbs? Did you finish the job and finally kill her too? Are you, or are you not, the beast of the bay, Mr Graham?” She shoots the questions clean and clear, a Dictaphone held up to Will’s face in the hopes of catching something incriminating.

His response is terse, as he less-than-delicately pushes the device back toward her.

“Leave me alone, Ms Lounds”

“Come on _Detective_ Graham, you can give me better than that. You did know the victim after all” she says with a sly smile. She is smart; she knows his past is a closed book, a chapter better left unread. She knows that if nothing else, Abigail would draw a reaction from him, one that she could sell. The truth of the moment matters nought to her, it never has.

Will sighs, pulls his jacket tighter, and gives her a tired frown. If she was hoping for her next big break, she would not be finding it there.

“Come on Freddie, we've had this dance before” he grunts, waves a gesture to the boatyard up ahead, “I’m a fisherman now, not a cop. And no, I’m not going back.”  

Will had long grown used to the prying; although he had been living there many years, he was still the hot gossip amongst the oft bored residents. Her incessant meddling wouldn’t change what she’d done to him, to the tatters of a life put out to grass.

Hunching his shoulders and lengthening his stride, Will makes his way hurriedly onward, trusting that the reason she’d caught him on his walk was because she didn’t want to subject her outfit- herself really- to the frigid damp of the docks. He was right of course, she drops back, no-doubt already penning another inflammatory article about him for her news blog. He never reads them, never really keeps up to date on any news that isn’t crammed down his throat by so-called friends.  

*

It isn’t quite light when he finally arrives- later than he had planned thanks to Freddie’s interference- the murky light of predawn an ever-brightening march. Overdue for departure as they already are, Will bypasses his usual routine, and instead makes a beeline straight to Molly’s ship. Hers isn’t the largest vessel moored in the harbour, not by a long shot, but it’s sizeable enough. If nothing else, it earns them a living.

Molly nods a greeting as Will leaps the step between concrete and steel, landing on her deck with a heavier clang than he would have liked. Molly is another oddity, she had not always pursued this life, or at least it wasn’t her first choice of career. She had confessed one night over too many drinks- in the lazy summer, when days seemed to roll on endlessly, and a tipsy Will paid far too much notice to the way her skin baked to a warm beige, and sunlight caught in her hair, turned chestnut brown into soft gold- that she had been an artist, and a good one at that. She had taught art-therapy classes a few times a week at a mental institution over on the mainland, until a patient killed a friend of hers. She’d taken leave, her art had soured, and she knew she no longer wanted to be a part of that life. Will had commiserated with her at the time, knowing anything he would have divulged in return to have long since been picked over already by one Freddie Lounds.

In his low moments, he likes to muse over the idea that hauling nets seemed to be a place where talented fuckups went to eke out the rest of their existence; though even Molly hadn’t hit rock bottom quite so thoroughly. Though they were both here through the aftermath of murder, at least Molly was an innocent party. It amuses Will to no end that perhaps his closest companion on the whole island had worked in the sort of institute to which he probably still belongs.

Molly is neither fond of, nor prone to needless small-talk, a fact for which Will would remain ever grateful. If nothing else, it gave him space to breath, finally free of the crushing expectation that haunts his days. Bunching his gear under his arm, he throws a nod at the ship's third crewman- the greenhorn, Randall- as he takes off to dress. He too is another misfit, although he is much too apathetic about the work for Will’s liking. He has a feeling Molly will not be hiring him on next season.

They set off the second he has changed, the pale grey morning just starting to glint on the water.

The ship pitches wildly as they hit the real current, the waves violent but nowhere near as bad as they could have been. Will simply adjusts his stance to accommodate the rocking, though Randall has to rush to steady himself lest he slip overboard. It’s dangerous work, the deck soon perilously slippery with misting sea spray, the wet cold a beast in itself, salt-slick water freezing upon skin. Will couldn’t be sure why he decided to move all the way out into the wilderness to live the sparse life he had settled into. It is harsh and not always lucrative- though in fairness his income is supplemented by his work in the boatyard. It isn’t even as if he was born into it; he had never taken a boat out as a boy; and though he worked in shipyards, his father moved them around too much to make such an investment. Maybe it was in his blood, the pull from generations past urging him out onto the sea. The old folk who so loved to share their forgotten wisdoms with an inquisitive young boy used to say the sea had it’s own kind of magic, that it hadn’t faded from the world, but slipped silently back into the waves. But magic was long gone if ever it existed, and he shouldn’t believe in such nonsense.

Maybe it's the forced solitude that makes time away from land so peaceful.

The daylight is still strong this time of year; with any luck it will last long enough to give them a decent haul. They have been doing well, making enough profit to justify keeping going as the season creeps ever forwards into the long winter they are expecting. Will doesn’t really know what he’ll do with himself once they stop heading out, he never does. Time is a commodity he’d rather not give himself, too much of it lent strength to the madness that beat its fists on the walls of his mind.

Land is a distant smudge on the horizon, framed in shadow, by the time Molly orders the nets dropped. The work is all-consuming, muscles straining to keep him counterbalanced to the weight, keep him from slipping overboard and losing everything. Fingertips long since calloused hold steady against the bite of the rope- the most honest callouses they bare, protection earned from years of work.

The catch wouldn’t be as big as they’d had at the height of the season, but as they pull around, drawing the nets tight as Will works to keep them taut, he finds himself caring little.

There are other ships on the horizon, of course there are- fishing is an industry and though small their island may be, it is not free from commercialisation. They shine in the morning light, bright suns burning trails among the waves. There is a sense of peace out on the sea, a feeling as if nothing of his life could touch him out there, the shadows of his past drowning themselves in the harbour. Watching the sun-kissed horizon, feeling the burn in his muscles as he fights against the pull, Will could stretch to calling himself content.

They begin reeling the nets in at Molly’s order, the repetitive task soothing in its physicality. The haul is bigger than Will expected, though judging by the pinching around Molly’s mouth, it isn’t at all what she had hoped for. Randall seems happy enough, whooping a howl of  joy as fish spill between their legs, coating the deck in fresh seawater- at least until the smell reaches him. Will breathes deep, comforted by the stench, the salt tang of nature, sea and earth, and a homeliness that reminds him of boyhood days spent in the boatyards of his youth.

They sort the fish with the sort of efficiency that reminds him why Molly had kept Randall on- despite an uncomfortably aggressive temperament he is a good worker, and together they are a darned sight quicker than if they had to train in someone new. With the unwanted catch thrown back, and the rest shovelled into the hold, the nets go back out.

*  


The rest of the morning passes in much the same way; nets go out, nets come back in- an easy repetition. It soothes Will to have such order in his life, especially now. He doesn’t know how he’d settled finally, after taking off with barely a word to anyone about the what’s or whys- blood, so much blood on his hands, her life slipping away and nothing he could do about it. He’d taken his boat and his dog and he’d just gone. The past in the past and the future on the horizon, bobbing on the waves like the glinting trawlers he watches anchored a ways away- though the distant clouds rolling in give him pause for thought.

They eat a cold lunch on the decks, Randall jabbering on about some article or another he’d read, something about a creature sighting of some sort, and how it could be linked to the spate of disappearances they’ve been plagued with. Molly makes enough encouraging noises for the both of them, allowing Will to eat in peace, too far away in the recesses of his mind to be bothered to play nice. He isn’t known for it anyway. It’s another reason he likes his one and only real friend, she doesn’t push, doesn’t question why Will doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t want for it herself, just accepts him the way he is and that’s that. He’s competent and hardworking, little else matters.   

They move on after they’ve eaten, to where the shadow of a shoal darkens the water, and consequently catch more than they thought they would. The light is starting to bleed into the same grey dusk in which they left when Molly orders them to turn back- they have stayed out longer in the past; until the sun was kissing the sea and the night drew over its cloak of darkness, but they’ve had a decent haul, and it isn’t worth the fuel to push their luck. Besides, though the day still has many hours left, Molly’s is not a boat suited to staying out after dark. Will is soaked through, skin crusted with salt and fish guts as they move back toward the harbour. Sweaty and exhausted, he relishes the burn of his muscles, the sign of an honest day’s hard work that doesn’t manifest as a nagging, clawing thrum deep in his skull. Their work is far from over, he knows, and his own tasks will take him until well into the dark, but there is a buoyancy to returning that still hasn’t abated, seasoned though he is. There is little waiting for him at home, save the knowledge that he has managed to pass another day, a feat that has often, in days passed, seemed almost unmanageable.

The tide is against them as they head back, slowing their progress significantly. To pass time, Will busies himself in readying the boat- the waves calmer now, though the heavy clouds drawing ever closer feel ominous, like a warning.  The greying day has slipped to a pinkish sunset by the time they pull into the harbour.

The waters of the inlet are calm in comparison to the open ocean, and Will feels muscles he didn’t realise had tensed to steady himself relaxing. There are a group of scattered dockworkers waiting for them as they pull in, a number with billhooks at the ready. It still takes a while get them sorted, docking a boat as large as theirs takes time, and no matter how monotonous it is, how slow it drags on, he wouldn’t ever compromise. The day is beginning to press on them, but there is no time to rest. As soon as the ship is fully moored there are people clambering aboard to help empty the hold.

It’s all but dark by them time they finish, the daylight dropping away though the hour is by no means late. It’s Randall’s job to scrub down the decks- he is the greenhorn of the crew after all- so Will helps Molly load up tomorrow’s supplies.

“Keep your phone on you” she mutters, eyes on the skyline, “I don’t want to call off tomorrow, but.”

Will grunts in conformation, though Randall seems geared up to whine about it.

“Can’t we just decide now?” He groans, abandoning his work to approach them, “I want to know if I should make plans”

“One day off isn’t going to kill you kid” Molly grinds back, steadying for a fight.

Too drained to deal with an argument, Will keeps to himself and his tasks. He'll step in if needs be, but he knows well that Molly can look after herself.

“I don’t want to take her out in a storm Randall, and we’re not going to know what that-” she gestures to the ever darkening clouds sweeping in to blanket the clear night sky, “is going to do until it either breaks or dissipates. Tomorrow.”

Randall has no real rebuttal, he's far too green to know what he's talking about and he knows it, though it doesn't stop him grumbling under his breath. When it looks like the matter is resolved, he nods a gruff goodnight to the both of them, and turns his attention instead to the wash station.  The reek of fish never really leaves him; the salt-tang of the air a scent that had clung to him long after he left the waters of his youth behind. A quick wash removes the filmy layer of salt, sweat and viscera though, or at least clears enough that another hour here and the walk home after won’t have him crawling out of his own skin. He leaves his boots and slicker suit in a pile with the rest, and once again in his own jacket and shoes, he heads down to check up on his girl.

She’s moored up where he left her, every bit as beautiful as he knows she is. He runs rough hands over the salt-slick moorings, checking and double checking for himself that they’re secure enough to hold her no matter what the weather throws his way. There’s an anxious feeling stirring in his gut as he climbs aboard- brushing his fingertips lightly over anything in reach- though he doesn’t know why. Perhaps he’s just worried about the potential for a storm, she’s weathered a fair few since she’s been moored here, but each one still sits heavy in his gut, the knowledge that one bad squall could spell the end of the most important thing he owns, his lifeline should he have to move again. But no, that’s paranoid. He purposefully shakes himself out of his stupor, focusing instead on what it is he came to do. Once he’s satisfied himself that she’s okay, he readies her for the potential for bad weather, always ready to play it safe.

*

An early night has well and truly fallen by the time he sets off back through town- money in his pocket, some of the day's catch in his bag, even a few unpalatable extras someone had labelled up for his dog- and his exhaustion has settled into a dull throbbing ache in his bones. The moon would be bright above him if it weren't struggling to break free from the encroaching clouds.

It’s a long walk back through town, twice that if he skirts around and uses the clifftop path, and briefly he is torn between accepting the quiet sunset beauty of a lengthy but solitary walk, or yielding to the chance at getting home faster, though the press of people makes him more than uncomfortable. In the end it’s the ache in his shoulder that decides for him, the cold drawing in bites deep into the old wound, sends pain skittering down his arm.

It's not too hard for him to slip through the streets, a silent wraith blown in with the sea mist, largely unnoticed and oft avoided. He manages to pass the scattered few people he meets with little more than an exchange of nods. The people here know him, though he is still somewhat of an outsider despite the years, but for the most part he’s ignored- an act no doubt aided by the stench of yesterdays catch leeching into his clothes. He lives a fair walk outside of the town proper, default owner of a large stretch of land by virtue of his cabin being the only structure built that far out, where resources were stretched thin and sketchy at best. His phone sputters a faint buzz as he passes through the last patches of network signal; sounding from the deep recesses of his bag before falling silent again. Will doesn't bother to stop and check who it was, the only person likely to reach out being Molly, who would have spoken to him face to face had she anything of import to impart. Anyone who needed him here knew how far into the dead zone he lives, and so wouldn't call. No one calls him these days. He isn't quite sad about it.

The sight of his cabin in the distance brings warmth to his frozen limbs- when the lights are on, the hulking, glowing mass is like the glint of the ships he watches on the horizon, a beacon drawing Will toward it. Calling him home. The lights are off to conserve money, but the impression in the brightening evening is much the same. Where once a whole pack of dogs would have greeted his arrival, only Winston remains- too loyal to him to stay behind when he took off. His company is all he could have asked for, it truth it’s all he could stomach.

The dog in question comes bounding over to him as he slowly, wearily, drags his feet across the last stretch of field; nuzzling into his palm in a soft request for either fuss or food. The first thing he had done when settling into the house was make sure the door had something akin to a dog flap- the fear of burglary was low to begin with, his isolation and lack of expenses make it almost non-existent. In fact, aside from homemade fishing lures and a select few pieces in his rather healthy collection of fishing equipment- most in need of some form of repair or another- there is really nothing he owns that is worth stealing. Thus, Winston has the run of the land, freedom to travel in or outside of the house as he pleases, unharmed therefore by the sheer length of Will’s working day.

The low steps up to his porch seem somehow impassable as his exhaustion truly sinks in. He’s been carrying a tension around with him more and more of late, the shadows of the past clawing their way up from his rotten mind to play havoc with him. Sleep has not been his friend for many days now.

When he’d first made the decision to move out to what most people would consider the middle of nowhere- it was, in many respects, an almost entirely self-contained island, sporting one major harbour town- he’d expected a lot less than he’d gotten. Perhaps it was the weeks spent aboard his boat, moving forwards with an almost obsessive determination, trying to find a place in the world where his nightmares wouldn’t haunt his waking days. Where the shambling corpse of Garret Jacob Hobbs would for once leave him be. He had expected gasoline powered generators, independent water pumps and nothing in the way of electricity. What he got instead was a normal- if isolated- house, fully powered and sparsely functional. It is small, yes, and distinctly lacking in everyday appliances- no place to install them even if he had the burning desire to- but it suits him in a way nowhere else ever has.  

He puts the day’s catch in the refrigerator, and gives Winston the extras he’d been gifted- whilst cooking dog food was a relaxing task of a weekend, he still provided leftovers and unwanted, dog-friendly scraps as much as his own creations. Winston doesn’t seem to mind.

He stokes up the stove before he goes to shower- enough logs to last the evening- in preparation for the meal he would later cook.

The warm water is something else, temperature never quite as hot as he’d prefer it, but a blessing nonetheless. He fancies he can feel the day’s muck sliding off as he scrubs at weather-beaten skin, his demons washed away with it. His shower is sadly perfunctory, and all too soon he finds himself shutting off the water and stepping into a coarse, thin towel. There would be time to relax in his weekly bath, once the tasks for the weekend are done. For now he changes into a large, thick jumper, perhaps pulled from the winter chest too early but always appreciated. Soft sleep trousers and thick woollen socks finish the ensemble, protecting him from the chill of wooden floors. Already the fire is starting to warm the house, the wood smoke not yet enough to clog the air, merely lending an earthy, heated aroma which never fails to ease his tension. His dinner is straightforward and uninspiring, a simple fish stew reheated on the stove and eaten in the solitary plush armchair- a particularly unnecessary extravagance, but one he would never regret.

He sleeps in the chair some nights, pleasantly worn out from the day and relishing the first bit of comfort he’s been allowed. He’s been asked why he doesn’t just get a car more times than he can count, but the truth is he doesn’t mind the long walk, relishes it almost. He’d miss so much; the predawn grey as it grows blush with colour, the slow awakening of nature, the quiet of town juxtaposing the hubbub of the harbour, all gone if he just up and drove everywhere. Not to mention the roads were garbage in the best of days, and the upkeep wasn’t worth the money. The tiredness in his bones is nice, it feels like honest work, the return walk is like coming home. In his more maudlin days- the days the burbling corpse of his nightmares grins hellishly at him, dripping bile and rotten flesh- he wonders what his life would have been if he had never been in homicide, if his imagination had never been set on fire.

*

He must have fallen asleep, because he is startled awake by a noise, long and low like a howl. Will levers himself up with great difficulty, body stiff from the odd position, and checks outside. There is nothing immediately in the field out front, although that doesn’t mean whatever it is isn’t just slightly out of view. He’d be sure he’d made it up; another symptom following him from the mainland, the ever favoured auditory hallucinations- only Winston is stood beside him, hackles raised and an answering snarl at his lips. He’s about to leave it be, chalk it down to random phenomena when it sounds again, clearer this time. Tears spring to his eyes unbidden. The cry tears at him, at some melancholy place in his heart. It sounds so hopeless, so sad, and so human- though of course no human could make a sound like that. He wishes fervently that there was something he could do, anything, but he does not know for certain where the sound came from- the reverberations off the cliffs make pinpointing near impossible, and he doesn’t know if whatever it is will be alright by the time he’d arrive.

The cry dies out soon enough, leaving instead a bitter, mournful silence. It rings in his ears as he finishes up the night’s tasks, slowing his usual brisk pace into something almost despondent. He isn’t sure why he’s so moved by such a noise, animal cries are a fairly common occurrence when one lives next to a forest; maybe it’s something to do with the sense of anticipation that has been simmering in his belly all day, unrecognised until now. He makes sure to keep his eyes and ears peeled as he takes Winston for one last ramble across the churned grass of his field, hoping at once to hear it again, and to forget it ever existed. There is nothing, of course, nothing to suggest anything had happened at all really, save for the soundtrack of that cry running loops around his head. A heavy sense of disappointment weighs in his stomach as he heads for home. He feels off, like something big is brewing, a storm of the metaphorical kind. It’s a sensation confirmed when he locks up for the night, and remembers the phone he had left discarded in his knapsack- he rarely bothered with it in all honesty, but it was an apparent must that he own one, even here. It’s as he’s getting it plugged in and primed to wake him, lest by some miracle he sleep in- he has never once not woken up before his alarm- that he notices the sheer amount of missed calls he’s received this past day. All gone unanswered. All from one number.

 


	2. A Dream

The stag visits Will in his dreams again, great hooves treading fresh tracks into the fertile soil of his mind. It is a magnificent creature, standing taller than by rights it should; it’s broad, muscular flank shining an iridescent black. It doesn’t mean him harm, he knows the truth of it in his very core; it’s there to protect him, though from what he cannot fathom. Still, the great warm puffs of breath on the back of his neck ground him, remind him that he is safe, no matter what vitriol his mind spits. He is safe.

He wakes from a restless sleep to a darkness that feels surprisingly apt. The storm has blown in overnight, and a relentless wind batters at his windows, testing the mettle of his old wooden door. He knows somewhere in the recesses of his frazzled mind that they will not be going out, but he’ll be damned if he is going to stay cooped up all day, not when the anxiety is gnawing at him. Not whilst Garret Jacob Hobbs stands once more a hulking mass in the corner, death-white eyes watching his every move.

A glance at his phone tells him it’s a few hours until he usually gets up; his thundering heart and sweat-slick skin tell him there is no going back to sleep.

Winston whines, pressing close as he shuffles to his winter trunk and grabs a thick knitted blanket to curl up in. The stove is quick to relight, its embers just barely losing their warmth; though he needs to chop more firewood soon or else his stock won’t last the bitter winter fast approaching.

He bundles himself into his armchair- drawn ever closer to the fire to leech as much heat as he possibly can- blanket a tight cocoon around him. Some nights are rougher than others. His days are no longer haunted at every footstep, and but most nights still see him waking a sweating, trembling mess.

He has calmed by the time his alarm sounds; the only way to get past this slight relapse is to power on, no matter how rattled he may feel. His morning routine is blessedly short, made more so in his desperate avoidance of the almost voyeuristic gaze the spectre weighs upon him. He dresses for the weather, thick trousers to keep the worst of the rain off if possible, light shirt because no matter what, he will work up a sweat from either walking or working. Often both.  

His knapsack is where he left it, the faint aroma of salt water and fish clinging to the old canvas. It’s one of the oldest things he owns, brought with him from the days he spent helping his dad. He wants to just slip his phone into the forgotten deep of the bag, and have done with it, but he knows from bitter experience that ignoring the problem does not make it go away. Garret Jacob Hobbs putrefying over his furniture could attest to that.

There’s a text message, nestled in amongst the nauseating list of calls, from an old friend he’d been close to in another life. Beverly had been good to him, never treated him like he was fragile. Too often he was the finest, delicate china to be taken out on special occasions, and left to rot in a cupboard the rest of the time. She was always brash, never afraid to speak her mind; he liked that about her. His fondness is the only reason he opens her message instead of discarding it straight away. It’s little help, however, reads only a cryptic “I’m sorry, I tried to stop him” which leaves Will with the distinct impression that he wandered into the middle of a conversation he doesn’t want to be a part of.  

He puts it from his mind as he pulls on his heaviest raincoat; a thick, shapeless thing that he’s had for too many years. The storm is going strong still, but if he’s not much mistaken it will probably blow over by the afternoon. Stepping out into the downpour, however, feels a lot more like drowning than he’d care to admit. Though the boots keep his feet dry enough, his shins are soaked within minutes, freezing bullets of water sliding in lazy trails down ice-cold skin.

The clifftop path is impassable in poor weather; Will worries every time there is a torrential downpour that the ever eroding bluff will just up and fade away. The town doesn’t fare much better. Built as it is on a major incline, the water runs like a river down the cobbled streets. It’s all that he can do to stay on his feet, buffeted hard by the wind, path slick with muck which slides every other step. He’s glad for once when he reaches the centre of town; the gradient softening into a gentle slope makes for easier walking.

As he suspected, Molly is already at the docks by the time he makes his way over, though she looks much more haggard than she had the previous day. She turns as Will approaches, a soft frown on her young face.

“I’m not taking her out today” she calls, shouts really to be heard over the wind.

“I didn’t think we would risk it. Is there anything you need me to do?” Will all but yells back, forced to lean in and speak almost directly into Molly’s ear. In truth, all he wants is to check on his own boat and head back to the warmth of his fire and the comfort of his dog.

“No I’ve just about finished up, I’m heading off myself actually if you wanted to grab something at the _Mariner’s?_ I mean you’ve had to brave the storm anyway, seems a bit ridiculous not grab breakfast before you make that trek back, not as if you’re overflowing with good food up there.” Molly’s smile is so hopeful it almost hurts. Will is not unaware of how fervently Molly wishes their friendship were more, wants to elevate them above close colleagues, into that indefinable nowhere space, the blush of kindredship. He works hard to dissuade this feeling, this urge to push for more than he can give; maintains a careful relationship with everyone he meets, close enough to ensure work, but not so much as to encourage affection beyond that of a passing acquaintance, someone known of but not known. Molly, however, is nothing if not resilient in her pursuits.

Theoretically Will had plans in place to discourage this sort of thing, though they have never been put into action as his stature and general aura of violent placidity works as a natural diversion. He is therefore taken aback by the boldness, the breaking of unwritten rules that feel to him as old as the sea herself. He splutters, stalling, this new territory unknown and unfathomable to him. Though he avoids interaction at all costs, he is not heartless, and watching that smile fade into gentle disheartenment, the decision is all but made for him.

“Yeah okay, Winston isn’t going to miss me for a while” he says with a small,  nervous smile. The gleam reignited in Molly’s eyes trills something warm inside of him.

 

_The Mariner’s Revenge_ is the one feature of the island that has stood for decades, due mostly to the fact it is the one place open early enough that dockworkers could get a hearty breakfast before the ships go out and the day really begins. It’s almost empty when they enter, a gust of warm air greeting them the second they fall across the threshold and into the comfortingly dim interior. As bright and airy as the diner usually is, the lights are no match for the churning grey storm seeping light from the day.

Orders are placed at the bar- a full breakfast for Molly who can eat and eat and gain only muscle, and a breakfast scramble for Will, whose eating habits run scarce at the best of times- and delivered to the table by a yawning Georgia Madchen. They’re holed up in a corner booth near the back of the room, tucked in warm, dry and far away from the rain battered windows. It’s cosy, intimate in a way Will isn’t used to; isn’t entirely sure he doesn’t like. The mellowed glow of the lighting softens their edges a little, bathes Molly’s hair a soft buttery bronze. The food lessens the silence between them, takes away the pressure to talk that plagues Will every time he is forced to interact one on one.

In a rare moment of synchronicity, Molly glances up, and catches his eye . Her mouth creases in a gentle, intimate smile, eyes soft, affectionate. “So how have you been keeping yourself Will?” she asks as she leans across the table, fledgeling grin playing about her lips.

“Same old, same as yesterday” Will replies with a shrug, staring down at his partially eaten plate as if it will hold the key to handling the situation. Small talk has never been his forte.

“Everyone worries about you, you know, up there all on your own.” She gestures in the general direction of the hill with a grease-shined knife.

“I like it, I like the isolation. I can let Winston roam free when I’m away.”

“How is he? He must be getting on some now huh?”

“Still as energetic as when he was a pup.”

“I miss him, you should bring him down here sometime.”

“Yeah, he’d probably love it.”

“He’d be spoilt rotten. He deserves to be” Molly wears a look that is entirely too warm, too pointed to be taken at face value. It’s a look as if to say ‘ _wake up Will, I’m talking about you, you fool’_ and as charming as that may be, it still feels out of place, like a gift you know was meant for someone else.

“Next time” He concedes, an uptick at the corner of his mouth, the hint of a smile. “When I need to stock up again”

Molly barks a laugh, “I’ll hold you to that” slipping out somewhere between her chuckles.

She is silent for a second when her laughter subsides, head bowed to stare down at her plate, searching for what she wants to say in the remnants of a half demolished breakfast.

“Thank you for agreeing to this with me Will, it means a lot” she says eventually, peering up across the table through her lashes.

Will scoffs something non-committal, ducking his head as a faint blush heats up his cheeks.

“No really, I know you don’t like going out much, I’m glad you want to spend time with me” and damn if she isn’t the most sincere woman on the island.

Will reaches for his coffee mug, drinking deep, savouring the smooth bitterness. If it was an excuse not to reply, that was something only he had to know. Molly may look more lumberjack than fisherman- burly and muscular from hauling nets, a thickness to her flannel-clad shoulders like she’d wandered into a gym one day and had forgotten to leave- but she is the sweetest person Will knows.

“I feel like we don’t talk anymore” she sighs, breaking the mounting silence, “Not since the seasons changed at least”

“I suppose we’ve just got a lot more to do now the autumn is stretching thin.”

In truth, Will thinks that was probably his doing, he is quick to decline any and all post-work drinks, preferring instead to curl up at home with his dog and his books and a fire to chase away the bone-deep chill.

“I know but we should really do this more often.”

“I think I’d like that” Will blurts out, instantly kicking himself when the biggest grin he’s seen to date breaks over Molly’ face, like the sun breaching the clouds.

“Yeah?” she asks, practically breathless with excitement.

“Yeah.”

“Brilliant.”

*

By the time their breakfasts are finished, the storm has eased off, though the day heralds a relapse. The rain has all but stopped, and the brightness of a paltry winter sun is breaking through in patches as they leave the diner, Georgia bidding them a cheerful farewell from behind the bar-far more awake than when they’d arrived, a testament to how long they’d taken. Though Will has nothing waiting for him but chores, and it is fairly obvious that Molly doesn’t want this time between them to end, the morning is creeping perilously close to midday, and as always work needs to be done, especially if they are to spend the next few days making up for the storm-driven losses. Molly is reluctant to leave, accompanying his quiet goodbye with a soft smile, squeezing Will’s shoulder firmly, companionably. Will waits until she has headed back into the the centre of town before he makes his way home, a somewhat bemused smile refusing to leave his lips.

This time when he entertains the thought of taking the clifftops home- practically impassable though the path is- he feels as if there is nothing that can stop him. He can’t face the trek through town, not just the grime of mud-slick streets, but the chance of running into anyone readying to face the day now the storm has abated. The chance of going for round two with Freddie bloody Lounds. He does not want to deal with her, and he cannot manage any more small talk, not today, so solitary scenic route it is.

He doubles back toward the docks, and takes the rocky old footpath which runs almost parallel to the shoreline; the mud thick and soft underfoot, but gripping nonetheless. He doesn’t mind the dense, churning, boggy earth, prefers it even.  The view is astounding, the swirling, bulging purple-grey of the clouds, the hazy almost-blue of the sky breaking through in places, aided by a sun that turns the cresting waves to diamonds. He pauses at the top of the bluff to admire it all, pushing the heavy hood back from his head to better take it in, heedless of the rain- softer now, but just as steady. The sea is at its best after a storm. The old Ms Pimms used to say it was when she felt the most connected to the old magic.

It’s a long time before he can drag himself away.

Though the worst of the downpour has abated by the time he reaches his house, the chill in the air has returned full force. Will pays it no mind.

He rids himself of his coat on the porch so that it drips puddles outside where he doesn’t have to clean up. Winston is waiting for him inside, chew toy giving a sad squeak from where it is gripped firmly in his mouth. His wet hair dampens his collar where it sits, though he supposes the material will be sodden enough by the time he has finished up the tasks he’d set himself. A day off is not a day of rest, not out here.

Loaded shotgun slung over his shoulder, he heads out to dismantle the last of his traps, Winston at his side. Will is a fisherman, not a hunter, that much is obvious in how rudimentary his traps are-, meant not for food but for security. The gun isn’t even for hunting, it’s for protection, for both he and Winston against who knows what creatures make a home in the trees. He certainly doesn’t have a clue what he shares his doorstep with, and in any case, the native wildlife doesn’t account for the cry he had heard. It had been far too loud, too deep and wretched to have come from any small creature, which- according to Randall- some recent survey or another had declared is the only sort of wildlife their island is home to. Not that he himself hadn’t spied a fawn or two before, a wolf once even, skulking away through the treeline, gone by the time he approached.

Though a decent marksman- a necessity given his previous employment- he lacks the knack for that particular skill, in any case- as demonstrated by the few lean, half-starved rabbits he managed to nab here and there in the week-and-a-half his father had tried to really, truly teach him. That was before he gave him up as a lost cause, and not just in hunting.  In his heart, he hopes the creature he heard isn’t something injured, if not by him that by any other hunters the island may be harbouring. The traps were only ever meant to protect them, though he knows the pointlessness of the idea, knows that he is safe in the wilderness; there are no large natural predators on the island, not really, and if there were they would not head for his tiny little homestead over the lush pickings further towards the coast. They are merely a precautionary measure, a way to make himself feel better about leaving Winston alone whilst he is away.

His search is methodical; he knows exactly where he placed every one of the traps- roughly seven paces apart from each other in a wide semi-circle a little ways in from the treeline- and he spends a few minutes clearing debris away from the surrounding area where they lay on the off chance that some critter would find itself stumbling into one by accident. There was nothing of course, as he knew there would be, but he would never again take just his brain it for granted.

When each patch, is cleared- sprung traps rearmed- and Winston has had his own search through the undergrowth, Will again paces the line where once the traps sit. His feet draw an arc around the outskirts of field and trees, where once he had thought to lay them, but he finds nothing. There isn’t anything there that shouldn’t be, hasn’t been the last few times he’s checked but it’s always safer to try.  

The midday sun wanes, and late afternoon fast approaches as he grabs a quick, light lunch, still somewhat full from his meal with Molly. With an unprecedented afternoon off, Will is almost at a loss for what to do, loath as he is to break into any of his winter work. Though reading often grips his fancy, he cannot justify wasting an entire afternoon on one meaningless task when so many practical things call to his attention.

He has tasks saved of course- increasingly pressing though some of them are- on the off chance of days like this. The most important of these is one he has been putting off for weeks now, but with the morning's storm threatening a return, and the season crawling ever onwards, it has suddenly found itself the top of his tasks. Food eaten, he grabs an old bandana to tie across his nose and mouth and heads outside around the back of his hut.  

The gutters in his homestead have a habit of blocking, not enough to cause any major damage, nor to interfere with his the water supply, but the smell it throws up in his sink is one he does not appreciate. Will does not exactly like clearing the guttering, but he enjoys getting lost in the repetitiveness of the task, the physicality of honest labour helping clear his head the same way hauling nets would. Though he had shucked his coat before he began, mindful of how restrictive it can be, he soon enough has to pause and wipe muck-smeared hands against muddied jeans in order to strip his jumper. The damp heat of exertion pours off him, slick sweat cooling on his skin, dampening the back of his shirt.  

The stench the task throws up is enough to trick his gag reflex even now, the sweet smell of decay a cloying, heavy thing that crawls into the back of his throat and makes a home there. It trips memories of a time he'd rather forget, images flashing in front of his eyes of days not so long past, when that self same reek- or one similar- would accompany his day to day, cling to his clothes, his hair, his very skin.  

The stinking black pulp slides through his fingers as he twists his body down to try and pull as much as he can each time, an attempt to shorten the task. He doesn't bother with protection, though as the foul smelling gunk collects beneath his nails he half wishes he had, there is little need when he can just scrub himself down and save on washing. The task is not over long, and soon enough he is scooping out the last of the rotten sludge, fighting desperately to suppress the bile clawing it's way up his throat, stinging tears into his eyes.

An ominous rumble follows him as he finishes up, loud and low, threatening to break the heavens once more. His knees creak their protest at so long in that position, toes tingling with the rush of blood as he totters back around the side of the house; which is of course when sky opens up and the rain returns with a vengeance. The two of them are soaked, mere meters from the from door, Will’s clothes wet through so fast even his jacket becomes as a second skin.  

He is forced to strip on the porch, clothes dumped in a sodden pile by this morning's discarded coat, lest he spend an evening mopping up mud-soaked puddles. Winston remains ever loyal on the doorstep as Will pads inside, clad only in thin pair of sopping wet boxer shorts. He is quick to light the stove, trembling fingers fumbling the matches before they finally catch, bathing the house in blessed warmth to combat the rain chill. He deals with his dog before anything else. He finds the large, threadbare towel lying exactly where he left it to dry after Winston’s last bath (with every intention of washing it along with the rest of his clothes come the weekend), and braves the cold again to rub the worst of the wet from his fur. As Winston settles inside, Will bundles up the dripping pile into the towel, and takes them inside to hang in the bath until the they’ve drip dried.

When he’s suitably bundled up- in the thickest pair of socks he can find, soft fleece pyjamas and large, heavy winter jumper- man and dog settle in for the long night ahead of them. Technically it’s still early enough to get more chores done, but by the time the chill has receded, and Will’s skin is no longer cold and clammy to the touch, night has all but fallen, and there is little to do but eat a warm  meal, and settle in with a good book.

*

Will doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until he wakes, panting, skin slick with sweat and body trembling. Though he can barely remember what it was he had dreamed, the cloying stickiness of a nightmare still sits heavy in his mind. He has the wavering impression of something watching him in the darkness, poised and waiting to strike. It had tracked him, followed him, was ready to attack, he knew somewhere in the tense air that it would only take one swift movement and it would have won before he ever knew it was happening. The stag had not been there this time, or maybe it had gotten there too late, already the ghost-shape of its hooves was fading from memory. The more they occur, the less they look like dreams, and the more omens, something Will never thought he would think, even to himself.

Sleep is not elusive, though for once Will would welcome the retreat of insomnia. Almost as soon as he shuts his eyes, he is thrown right back into the grip of a nightmare, drowning in a sea of violence with no hope of breaking free. The nightmares plague him, fill him full of fear and anguish until he is bursting at the seams, shaking and alone in a too dark house in the middle of nowhere, no-one to help but the trembling hound at his side. Time and time again he climbs his way toward consciousness, only to fall farther into the shadowed depths of his subconscious, a dark, hazy place filled with the worst of humanity's crimes, images and feelings he had once been forced to stare at and dissect until his brain bled.

When he wakes again, it is to the greyish black of pre-dawn. He feels sickened, left weak and trembling by the aftershocks of violence so cruelly wrought. The phantom that follows him from the depths of his past is stood at the foot of his bed, yellow bile dripping from a rotten maw as he grins, stock still and staring him dead in the eye, trapping him with eyes bulging and filmed over a milky white. He is the reason Will knows he is slipping, his brain sliding back to where it once was, to days entrenched in horror.

Winston whines, crawling as far onto Will’s lap as his massive stature will allow, curling in close. Will clings

 


	3. The Little Boy Lost

The crisp, fresh air of the docks helps knock the last of the cobwebs from Will’s brain, still churning through a bog of nightmares. He knows distantly that the stag was with him, knows it as deeply as he knows in his bones that no matter the hardships of his life, the sea will always be there for him to return to. There is safety in the churning waves, the great depths hold secrets they will never impart to the living.

Molly is, as usual, already at the boat, chatting amicably to one of the dockworkers. She glances over and raises a hand in greeting as Will approaches, but otherwise doesn’t disengage from what looks to be a particularly engrossing conversation. It isn’t all that unusual to see her making nice, they live on an island, after all, and that means they do need to have good working relationships with everyone lest they end up affecting relationships elsewhere. Everyone knew everyone after all, and everyone knew to leave Will Graham alone, which suited him fine. By now they probably all knew about their impromptu breakfast, and wouldn’t that cause quite the stir.

*

The inlet is choppy, though otherwise surprisingly calm, it’s the open sea that is truly affected by the weather, a storm-churned mass, writhing and dangerous- more so than usual.  Will clings on to the ship as they pitch wildly, buffeted by wild winds and even stronger waves. He can see Randall from the corner of his eye turning a peculiar colour; he wouldn’t be surprised if the kid rediscovers his breakfast soon.

They sail out until the sky is lightening a pinkish grey, and Molly deems the spot good enough to pull around- the land an indistinguishable blur in the distance. Will hopes that they'll be able to make enough today to cover yesterday's absence; though unavoidable, any losses this late in the season are far more trouble to them than if it had been, say, a month previous. As soon as the nets drop then it’s business as usual; albeit a tad more difficult as they get blown this way and that, sea spray all but freezing on skin. If the work was all-consuming before, the added weight of counterbalancing net and wind makes it a trial. Hands ache and muscles burn as they work to keep the net tight, and themselves still aboard.  

The ships Will would often watch are ominous this morning, looming shadows in the distance waiting for them to slip up.

On Molly's order, they begin reeling the nets in, heavy with a surprisingly large catch. Molly's grin is blinding, somewhat shocked by the sheer luck they seem to have stumbled across, as fish spill across the deck, flapping and writhing, bringing with them the salty stench that settles so comfortably into Will's lungs.  

The fish are sorted fast and with precision, catch in the hold, rejected back out to sea and nets dropped in an almost mechanical efficiency that tells of comfort within the repetition, of years of working as one. Their morning carries on in much the same vein, catch reasonable in size and exceeding all expectations in quality.  

Lunch is taken, as usual, on deck, some sort of light, pasta salad that Georgia Madchen- who prepares food for them in exchange for the first pick of their catch- seems convinced will give them plenty of carbs for the day.

"Did you hear?" Randall asks, leaning in close, alarmingly near to dripping sea-fish-water into his food.

"What? About the body?" Molly asks around a mouthful of pasta, eyes bright.

"No I meant about old Jimmy from the Post Office, what body?"

"I heard the police found a corpse washed up in a storm, apparently they think it was murder."

Will flinches at the implications, that death has followed him here, an inescapable companion. He can feel his body lock up tight, brain whiting out briefly as all he can do is stare at the water falling free into Randall’s food.

"No way" Randall breathes in fascination, sounding for a moment every bit as young as Will knows he is- at least ten years his junior.

"Apparently it was badly mutilated under the water damage, like someone was trying to hide who it was."

"Like hell they did."

"Well what this you've heard about Jimmy then? And don't you let him catch you calling him old" she grins around her fork.

Randall either notices his mistake, or else is ready to settle in and share his knowledge, as he leans back and takes a bite of his lunch, grimacing at the taste."Well that's the thing isn't it? He's up and disappeared" He states, as if this should be common knowledge already, "Brian said he went out one afternoon and never came back. Thought he'd gone out and gotten himself pissed until he didn't come back after the storm. It's been three days now."

"He's probably holed up somewhere again, you know what he's like."

"Nah, Brian says he's checked all his haunts and he's not there, says he's just disappeared."

"The Beast of the Bay." Will mutters almost to himself, the conversation with Freddie Lounds suddenly thrown into harsh context.

"What?" Molly splutters, glancing over at him, worriedly.

"Oh man, what if it _was_ the Beast of the Bay again?" Randall's eyes widen, and a grin creeps across his face at the thought of something as interesting as a serial killer happening on their sleepy little island.

"And on that note, back to work" Molly says clapping her sea-rough hands together and standing with a flourish. And what Molly says, as always, is law on her boat.

As they pack away their lunch, and get ready to move somewhere new, the thought won't stop buzzing around Will's head, no matter how many times he tries to banish it. Could it be the Beast of the Bay? It was a dumb name for a suspected serial killer, and an even worse move to assume the crimes were in any way connected, but there have been routine spates of disappearances for years; most people just assume they've moved away, which is a common enough occurrence, especially if they weren’t widely known or liked. The beast became a tale for children; _don't play at night in the forests by the sea, the Beast of the Bay will come to take you away_.  

The return to his comfortably monotonous routine quietens Will's mind, and once again he is left to relish the pure physicality of the pull and ache of his work. Better to punish his body then to let the madness spin its web in his mind once more.

The light is bleeding back into a faded dusk when Molly orders them back home, their hold comfortably full to match their spirits. The deep thrum in Will's bones tells of a day well worked, and though he is exhausted, there is an energy about him that isn't ready for everything to be over after the unload.

The day has been long and tiring; more so after yet another sleepless night, but by no means is it a bad one. Their catch is uncharacteristically large, the most they could hope for considering the time is fast approaching that Molly will have to make her decision and halt them for winter. There is a buoyancy to Will’s mood as they pull into the inlet, a contentment that is cut viciously short is they draw close enough for him to truly comprehend what he is seeing.

Jack Crawford is waiting for him on the docks, a hard man to miss, he cuts a strong figure, stood tall and firm, like the cresting sea should move around him. He is an unmistakable silhouette despite the years between their last meeting and this. It feels like a punch to the gut, the man who had caused him so many nightmares appearing like this, clean cut and well dressed where Will is unshaven and drenched, still dressed in his sea-stained slicker suit. It is the very epitome of his old life intersecting with his new in the most jarring of ways. Beverly's message makes perfect sense at last, she must have known Jack was on his way, delayed from finding him perhaps- no doubt due to the storm- but unstoppable nonetheless. He must have come over on the same boat as Freddie, though why she didn’t mention it he has no idea, she usually delights in causing him discomfort, and this one would take the cake.  

He turns as Will leaps from deck to dock- careful not to get in the way of the unload- genial smile crinkling his worn face. “I should have guessed this is where you would end up” he calls, and though his words are jovial, an iron core of blame barbs the tone. His hair has more grey in it than Will remembers, more silver than black these days.

“A true fisher of men you are, Jack” Will sighs. He can feel his shoulders drop, the unwelcome crawl of tension plucking at his muscles.

“What? My best investigator disappears I can’t find out how he’s been?” If it’s meant as a joke it falls flat. Will knows all too well the bitter taste of guilt coating his tongue, sitting a sharp reminder at the back of his throat.

“It’s been years Jack” Five years give or take, five good years of honest, wholesome work. Two of those he’d almost managed to bid goodbye to the shambling, rotten nightmares in the corner of his eye.

“We’ve been busy” Jack says, pointedly attempting eye contact. As a way to shame Will it works- he knew Bella Crawford was hiding something before he left, but he never would have guessed it was cancer. He sent his condolences at her passing, but he never went to the funeral. If a reminder of the injustices he had committed- no matter how unintended- to a close friend is meant to soften him, it has the opposite effect.

Jack seems to be waiting for Will to respond, but he refuses to be bowed once more. Their building silence is broken only by the relentless crash of waves, battered into a frenzy by the mounting winds. He tries again, another tactic- what he is there for. “I take it you heard about Abigail Hobbs?”

“You won’t find her out here Jack. She made it perfectly clear what she thinks of me.” His voice is almost lost below the clash of the storm-churned sea; Will half wishes it had been.

“And what about what you think of her?”

The routine is predictable, it's the same spiel that followed him after he saved her life. It’s part of the reason he left in the first place.

“She isn’t the copycat Jack, she just isn’t.”

“But how do you know?”

“I came here to get away from all that, Jack, can you not see that?” he growls, annoyed at the arrogance, and growing increasingly sick of it. All he wants is a new life, away from the relentless pulse of expectation. He never wanted to be able to read people the way he can, he didn’t sign his life away when he accepted a position to consult with law enforcement, except maybe he did.

This time he does force eye-contact, bending when Will looks down, following the path his eyes dart. He wants to drive the point home, that’s for sure.

“I don’t have that luxury, not when I have innocent people’s lives in my hands” he barks, a thread of  annoyance laced clearly through his tone. He knows he isn’t winning and it’s pissing him off.

“I’m not going back” Will grumbles, unceremoniously dismissing his unwanted visitor. He turns instead to once again check the moorings, still as secure as they were the night before. It settles some of the anxiety in his gut.

“Will” his tone is a warning, he is clearly irked by the insolence.

“No, Jack. I don’t work for you anymore, and I’m not consulting. I came here to get away.”

“You have a unique gift, Will, I just want to borrow your imagination.”

“You’ve used that line before Jack and look where it got me!” He’d had to cut himself off, leave everything behind, leave most of his beloved dogs just to rid himself of all the shit that followed. “I carved myself out a new life here, I may even be starting to heal from what you did to me and now you want to drag me back in? Fuck you Jack” He didn’t want the anger simmering in his gut to resurface, didn’t want the bad feeling that followed his ex-superior like a swarm. That way madness lay, he knows that all too well.

“Will.” Jack says it like he’s scolding a child; poor Will, too fucked up to understand that this is for his own benefit.

“No!” It’s almost shouted, almost desperate. The good mood from only a few short minutes ago is all but dead in the water. Gone, as all good things in his life had been since he became entangled with the law.

“I’ll be staying in town, come find me when you change your mind.” His tone is resigned, but the smirk twitching about his mouth tells another story; he thinks he’s won, that it’s only a matter of time until he gets his way. Jack Crawford wants him, so he better come a-running.

Will doesn’t bother to grace him with a response, merely turns on his heel and clambers back onto the ship to help with the last of the unloading.

When he re-emerges, Jack is gone.

Shoulders slumping in relief, Will drags himself towards the wash station to do what he can about the filmy layer all-but dried over his skin. Molly waits until the they are alone- or at least as alone as they can be- before she joins him.

“You ready to head out? Want to grab a quick drink to celebrate a good catch?” She grins, relaxed in a way that Will is shocked to realise he hasn’t really witnessed in all the years they’ve been friends.

“I’d love to Mol, but I just want to get washed up right now, today was a messy one.”

“That’s understandable” she sighs, disappointed, but not surprised. She takes the rejection with grace at least; squeezing Will’s bicep gently, mutters a soft “You take care of yourself Graham, you hear?” breath fanning over his ear, fingertips ghosting gently down his arm before she disappears back toward her boat, leaving Will to his own devices.

Decidedly unused to kindnesses as he is- it comes with the territory- Molly’s tenderness, her concern, it strikes him deeper than perhaps it should. People can so rarely deal with his idiosyncrasies, and social interaction is by and large such an exhausting feat that he doesn’t tend to bother with friendships. Still, the idea that even despite the outwardly cold persona he had adopted over the years, the little he bothered to actually socialise, and how awkward he would be when he did, that he could still be sought after was oddly thrilling in its own way.

*

Exhaustion bites into his muscles, though there are still many hours left to the evening, and with them a list of jobs to be done, but Will cannot settle to anything. He knows himself well enough to predict that any task he chooses to undertake will not be performed to the best of his capabilities, and the life he leads does not lend itself to sloppy workmanship. The hour is yet too early for him to take up a book, too early even for him to begin preparing a meal. He is twitchy down to his very bones. The house seems too small all of the sudden, walls he’s known for years pressing in on him, trapping him, suffocating inside the well of his nightmares.

Though the usual time is still a ways off, Will finds himself tugging on his walking boots. It can’t harm for Winston to get a longer walk than usual, he too has been unsettled- something in the air perhaps, Will suspects a real storm is brewing, the kind they haven’t seen in this sleepy little town for some time. The kind of storm that, in another time, in another place, Will’s dad would call a reckoning.  

Though the mud of the field is soggy, leaves crunch underfoot as soon as they hit the trees, a testament to the waning season ushering forth the inevitable march of winter. Winston sticks close by his side the further they walk, never one to tear off at a moment's notice. At times Will thinks he would have made a good service dog; at times he’s not so sure he hasn’t already.

Head down, hands loosely curled in vast pockets, he loses himself in the comfort of walking, striking out one foot in front of the other with no destination in mind, no pressure to go anywhere, do anything, just himself and his dog. His mind is on fire, burning with a newfound anger, a rage dug up from his very core to join the ever-present chill of grief that seeps into his bones and saps his will. He is angry and he is tired, he ran to this place, this isolated nowhere town, so that he may be left alone, not hounded at every opportunity every time something bad happens. And yet still trouble follows in his wake. Freddie Lounds and her inflammatory articles, pages and pages declaring him a murderer, speculating how he hid his crimes beneath the guise of the Beast of the Bay. He considers himself lucky no one in their right mind pays attention to her conjectural drivel; he likes the place, he doesn’t want her to be the reason he has to leave again. Not like last time.

Last time, when Jack Crawford lit a blaze in his mind and watched him burn.

That isn’t entirely fair; Will didn’t _have_ to accept the consultancy position- he was perfectly happy teaching malleable young minds- but Jack had wanted him, had all but begged for him to join them, and he didn’t know how to say no. In truth he didn’t want to, he missed the work, the feeling that rippled through him when the evidence finally clicked into place and he knew, he just _knew_ what had happened. It thrilled him just as much as it hurt him, burned him out from the inside. But he helped people, and he liked helping people, it was why he chose the job in the first place. That was, after all, why he had turned to teaching the brightest young minds all the knowledge he had gathered through years of experience, trusting that they would carry on what he could not.

The trouble started when Jack began to take him for granted, took too much time away from his lessons and grew aggravated when he stood his ground. He’d been pushing Will harder and harder as the months stretched on, long and unforgiving; frustrated when Will couldn’t just up and pull leads out of his arse. It didn’t matter that he was shaking apart on the inside, losing himself piece by piece, case by case. Soon there would be nothing of Will Graham left, his every waking moment consumed by a thick, black, fog of guilt; his tortured soul gradually consumed by it. Nothing about him mattered, only that the cases were laid to rest.

It would be grossly unfair to place Jack as the only reason he left, however, he had his own demons after all, nightmare visions his tired frazzled mind couldn’t separate, couldn’t justify. In his private walks, the long solitary ones he took before he moved- when he should have been focused on classwork but saw nothing but death every time he shut his eyes- he would disappear for hours at a time, a somewhat misguided attempt to find peace, walking until he could go no further. Sometimes he stayed out until the pale sunlight filtered over wet pavement, began his nightmare day anew with sleepless nights. Back then, the bloated, rotting corpse of what was once Garret Jacob Hobbs shadowed his footsteps, matching him step for step, or else stood burbling at the edges of his vision. But as long as he got the job done, and as long as he looked sane whilst doing it, then what did it matter that a dead man stood in his place more days than not.

When he left they still hadn’t found the bodies. Will doesn’t like to dwell too much on what that means.

He just took off, packed up what he could and took his boat and got the hell out of dodge. The new life he made out in the wilderness may be bleak in comparison, but it’s entirely his own, this thing he has built from the ground up, a feat he is so very proud of. A concession to the days the pull to just get lost and stay lost- wander until he found some dwelling far from civilisation and stay there- would lay heavy at the back of his mind.

The temperature is dropping by the minute, an icy wind catching at his clothing as he pushes on, too full of energy to contemplate an evening trapped indoors. Winston gives a short whine, pressing close to him briefly, a sign of encouragement almost- he seems unbothered by the chill, though in truth he has been for as long as Will has owned him. His hands begin to lose feeling, though he shoves them deeper into his pockets in an attempt to encourage some sort of protection, and yet still he cannot face the idea of turning back. He allows himself very little freedom in his heavily regimented life, he designed it that way- less time to ponder past mistakes. Less time for imagined shadows to nip at his heels. To cut short this walk is unthinkable, no matter the weather. Soon enough winter will set in and he will be forced indoors once again whilst the worst of the snow settles.

Winston is a comforting presence at his side as the light fades out around him; a near silent mass pressing warmth into his legs, eyes peeled for danger. The ground itself is slick, wet moss and crisp fallen leaves coating damp dirt, the soft crunch crack a soothing undertone to his thoughts. So lost is he, that he almost misses hard packed earth turning to soft snow underfoot, the snap of foliage hidden beneath a deadened tread. He pulls up short, heart racing, pounding in his chest as every way he turns the path is unrecognisable. There are no footprints to lead him back the way he came, just an untouched blanket of glistening white. Darkness has well and truly descended, an unseasonably bright moon peeking out between distant trees, glistening on the fresh packed snow, untouched in all directions. He’s heard of the aos sí before, in stories from his childhood, the ancient tales of wee folk written deep into the lore of the land. Young ones were taught how the wild magic found all around them could alter the land entirely, a trick on trespassers and troublesome children who don’t listen to their elders; but they are only stories and magic is all but dead. Will hasn’t even considered the existence in years, hasn’t known anyone who observed Creideamh Sí in longer than he can recall. But there is no other explanation offering itself to him, no reason for why he is turned around; lost in a forest he knows inside out, has walked in so often over the years he could recreate the paths and slopes from memory.

Though he has no idea what lies ahead, and despite every fibre of his being screaming against it, Will takes a tentative step forward into the unknown. The snow underfoot crunches just as it had before, though still he leaves no visible tracks. The wind nipping at exposed skin is just as sharp, but there is something new in the air. Like the crisp smell of the night which clings to Winston after his evening run, the ozone so heavy in the air after a storm that it tastes in the back of the throat. There is a newness to this place that sits upon his senses. Not the ancient earthy feel of his woods, grounded as firmly as the fresh salt-sand air permeates their town. These trees don’t feel like his trees, his were old, sturdy things, tough and resilient; these seem somehow newer and far older, they have bore witness not to the inevitability of progress, but perhaps something far more ancient. They tell tales of the days when magic still thrived.

Shaking off his trepidation he walks on, the forest almost impossible to navigate in its unfamiliarity. He lets his feet take him, a trick he had learned in the solitary hours of his youth; his feet will always lead him where he needs to go, regardless of whether it is where he wants to be. This instance they lead him toward a brightening moon which peeks out between the trees, a bold golden-white, gloriously bright and perfectly spherical. The light catches on the fresh snow, gives the whole forest an almost ethereal glimmer; and if Will had ever doubted that there was once an ancient force which governed the lands, he did not any more. Nothing natural could have created this place, the juxtaposition of bright moon and dark shadow, beauty and danger too perfect in their execution.

A soft mist coats the forest floor, quickening the further Will walks. He hadn’t noticed at first, sea mist such an everyday occurrence that he had almost dismissed it. It’s Winston’s quiet huff that has him glancing down, only to find their feet almost obscured, the fog rising still. At once, Will wishes he’d brought the leash he kept on hand for the odd times he had to take Winston into to town, at least then he could be certain of his safety. He contents himself with winding a hand into the thick fur on his scruff, as the opalescent tendrils creep further up their bodies.

They both stop dead as a cry calls, same as the night before, the depth of emotion hitting Will like a cannonball to the stomach. Up close it is such a wretched sound, bleak and lost and so unbelievably sad. He finds himself stumbling toward it, a pull deep in his chest crying out to him to help, to find whatever was so distressed and just _do something._ Winston is trembling at his side, though from fear or excitement he cannot tell- truthfully his own emotions are too are entangled in the call. Though his head is clouded and his heart is full, he takes off as fast as he can, breath burning in his lungs, Winston panting beside him. He will not stop until he finds whatever it is crying out to him, until he can find a way to help. The fog of the forest- kicked into a swirl by fast moving limbs- soon swallows them up.

 


End file.
